For You
by Melanacious
Summary: Change brought too many years of lonely nights stalking the streets in the role of the Lone Hunter. And Dawn needs a reason. W/D


_Melanacious: My attempt at PWP_

_Disclaimer: All characters owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I own nothing. _

_Spoilers: Season five: The Gift. after that everything is AU. About 10 yrs in the future_

_Rating: M_

_**For You**_

Dawn let herself in the house.

Weary, she shook off her jacket and was tempted to let it fall to the floor and stay there, but knew her house mate would have a fit. A small, rare smile stole across her face, for a moment tempted, just 'because' her house mate would have a fit. Dawn hung it on the coat rack by the door, instead. And crossed the room to the weapons chest to stow her sword away for the night, or rather the morning. She looked out the window; the sun was not far from rising.

_Pushing it, girl._ She chided herself.

She closed the heavy drapes. Turned to survey the countless pictures on walls dedicated to happier times. Sometimes Dawn just wanted shatter each and every single glass frame and toss those happy glossies in a fire. She turned off the lights in the living room which had been left on for her. Her gaze moved to the stairs, as she heard soft pads of feet thumping across the floor.

_She knows I'm home._

It wasn't a surprise, though Dawn had made no sound upon and since entering the house. The other woman had become attuned to her presence, possibly as attuned to Dawn, as Dawn was to her.

There were major differences in those awarenesses. Dawn grimaced at the morbidity in those differences.

_Oh well. Life. Lemons. Lemonade right?_

Except Dawn had never acquired a taste for Lemonade. And now she never would.

She tilted her head, cocked her ear, listening to the sound of a drawer opening and shutting.

She felt a twinge in her gut. Shook her head; thrust away that useless train of thought before it could form. _Pointless._

Dawn wondered if the woman had gotten any sleep at all. A few hours maybe. But they'd perfected the art of thriving on little sleep.

_How long? God how many years had it been. Six? Eight? Nine. Maybe it had been ten._

Amazing how easy it had been to stop counting so soon. After Buffy died. But when each day was repetitious and one night stretched into another what was the point in marking days on a calendar. Birthdays that were now meaningless had come and gone.

_And we remain unmarked by time. But scarred by life._

Energy thrummed through her veins, left over from a night of stalk and pounce. Dawn had come to understand long ago that weary and tired were two separate beasts.

_How had Buffy done it? Night after night?_

Sadness clutched her chest. Made it feel tight, constricted. She pushed away the sorrow. It had been too long now to give in to tears she wasn't even sure she was capable of. Instead she dashed up the stairs, her long legs covering two at a time. Stripped, Dawn thrust herself into the shower letting hot water and body wash cleanse away the grime from the night's patrol and vampire ashes. Soothe aches, old and new in tightly coiled muscles honed and defined from battle after battle.

She shampooed her honey brown hair, wanting it free from the stench of death which she knew would cling anyway. She was self-conscious of it but her sympathetic house mate had assured the scent was not unpleasant and smelled more like jasmine.

Dawn wondered why she had never smelled it on Spike. Familiarity, maybe. She had become so used to Spike being around, that maybe she had become desensitized to the scent.

That wasn't the case with the woman she shared the house with.

Dawn inhaled, and from memory, recall filled her senses with the scent of rain, clover and daffodils, and mild scented candles: the smells that always clung to the woman, enhancing the natural scent of her flesh and ...

She turned off the shower abruptly, opened her eyes and stared at the water droplets dripping down the tiled shower walls. Hunger gnawed at her belly. Her body trembled from it.

Showered and cleaner, she toweled herself dry, donned a long robe and then wandered down the stairs and into the kitchen.

She was there, wearing a football jersey, white with red sleeves, two sizes too big, wiping down the counter top. On the table, two coffee mugs waited, one steaming the air with a the pleasant blend of a dark roast aroma. The other, Dawn guessed, not long removed from the microwave filled the air with a different scent all together, and caused her stomach to rumble. Dawn moved into her seat, sliding the cup toward her.

She observed what had become a familiar domestic scene. Thick coppery red hair, fell in soft waves down the back of the shirt, covering the cute little quote, that Dawn no longer remembered. The pale legs were shapely with the faint markings of dark veins that disappeared up the hem of the jersey which fell just above the knees. Not varicose, the redhead would likely never suffer such malaffects of aging. She still got carded at the door of a bar and when ordering wine. Always would. And in daylight, when ever Dawn had the chance to spy from a window, sunlight kissed the redhead, making her glow like the timeless child of Apollo. Her eyes trailed upward past the hem to the soft flare of hips and rounded bottom, that she knew looked good in jeans.

Again she felt a twinge. And lifted the cup to her mouth. She groaned at the appetizing scents rising to tease her olfactory senses. From her cup. From the coffee mug on the table. From the redhead. Sometimes ... sometimes it was too much. And yet never enough.

"Are you hurt?" The voice was soft, strong and husky. A musical voice, which Dawn found ironic considering the woman couldn't hold a note to save her life and rarely sang except in the shower. Of course she hadn't even done that in ... well a long time. _Not since Tara. How many years?_

"Nope."

"How was it?"

"Same as it is every night." Dawn remarked coldly, habitually blowing into her cup. She regretted the caustic remark the moment it slipped from her lips. She watched the woman's back stiffen. Dawn lost her appetite. Placed the cup on the table and shoved it way.

The redhead turned away from the counter.

Instead of taking her seat, the woman looked at it, shook her head and started out of the kitchen. Dawn grasped a thin arm. Letting her hand slide downward, her fingers tracing a single faint vein along the forearm, feeling the pulse of magic beneath her fingertips, until she held the much slenderer hand in her own.

"I'm sorry."

There was silence. Heavy and pregnant with words that should have been spoken out loud, yet neither had the courage to give sound. Words robbed by death, betrayal and desertion. And Dawn had grown tired ... No—weary of the quiet. It was lonely outside and lonely in that house. And she wanted to tear down the walls and make noise.

"Do you want to leave?"

_Too._

The latter word was unspoken. But Dawn heard it. Felt it.

_Leave too, like the others._

Runaway, because death had hit too often close to home. Because the Scoobies had learned that they were neither invincible, nor infallible and that sometimes the white hats lost even when they won.

Did she want to leave?

The hand she held was so much much softer than her own, warmer, and she was all too aware the right amount of pressure would crush it. It was a beautiful hand, small and delicate, deceptive. That hand held more power, perhaps than anything so fragile in appearance should wield.

Did she want to leave?

Each night she searched for a reason to stay.

"Everyone we love is either gone or dead." The redhead spoke softly, voice cautiously steady. Gone was the much loved babble. "I'd understand if you left." Her head was turned facing the door, she no doubt wanted to escape through. Because maybe she'd cry if she stayed to hear the answer. And she'd never do that, cry and make Dawn feeling guilty for being the reason behind the tears.

"I know you would." Dawn sighed. _Of course she'd understand. And she'd let me leave and tell herself it was for the best. That I deserved a life of my own before this one kills me. Again._

"I can arrange..."

"Come with me." Dawn gently squeezed the hand she held.

"Dawn, I can't ..."

"Patrol." Dawn cut her off. "Come patrol with me tomorrow night."

"But you said ..."

"I know what I said." Dawn nodded. "I changed my mind." Her shoulders drooped. "It gets lonely out there." She pointed to her temple with her free hand, "Lonely up here too." She bit her lower lip. "I thought it was redemption, trying to make myself into copy of her. A rather poor one at that, considering..." Her grin was rueful. "But I'm not Buffy, Willow. And whether I deserve it or not I don't want to isolate myself. I don't want to walk the streets every night holding hands with guilt and loss." She brought the delicate hand she held up to her cheeks. "I want to hold this hand." It was as warm as sunshine on her cool cheek. Smelled of freshly cut grass and of the life-giving sweetness that flowed through the redhead's veins.

Dawn could almost believe she felt her own heart quicken.

"You stayed for me." The redhead sounded sad, stricken. Her eyes remained on the doorway, escape. "If you hadn't ..."

"Yeah." Dawn admitted. She'd had a full scholarship, could have left, maybe should have, with Willow and Tara's blessing. But that ship had sailed and had sank like the Titanic. _I stayed for you. Everything I've done I've done for you._

She lowered their hands, studied her own clasping the smaller one. It was large, the back unblemished smooth as marble against the the silk she held close. It could slaughter without a weapon.

_I died for you._

Spike had wanted Willow dead. Not turned, just dead. _It had festered in him for years and none of us saw it._ Blaming Willow for not saving Buffy. Bitter that Willow had refused his pleas to bring Buffy back from the dead after the battle with that hellgod, Glory.

He had still wanted Willow dead, even after Dawn's sacrifice. Even after his promise to leave the redhead alone, he had refused to stop trying, and had wanted Dawn to do it.

_I've killed for you._

Spike had put up a delicious fight but in the end he'd been no match for his own creation, a creation that could hunt and feed when he could not.

_I killed him for you. And then I changed ... for you._

She'd fought for the changed, endured test after tests, she'd believed she'd never survive. In Undeath Dawn had been as obsessed with the redhead as Spike had been with Buffy. Maybe she'd been in love with Willow long before.

_I would have come back and turned her if I hadn't changed. I would have killed Tara had another demon not beaten me to it._

And even then Dawn might have taken advantage of the darkness that had been unleashed within the redhead from grief, rather than reaching out to her and calming the beast of loss before the world could burn.

"I don't want to leave, Willow." Dawn spoke solemnly. "But I need a reason to stay."

"I miss them."

"I know." Dawn tugged her closer.

Xander and Anya couldn't get away quick enough from the memories of death and the ghost of Willow's terrible but brief fall into darkness. And Giles ... Dawn smiled bitterly. Neither Willow nor Dawn would ever again be children he'd once loved. She turned around in her chair and pulled the woman down onto her lap.

"But we can't turn ourselves into shrines for the dead and the departed. Tara wouldn't have wanted that for you. And Buffy wouldn't have wanted it for me."

She placed a hand around a slender waist and used the other to tilt up Willow's chin. A single tear rolled down the milky cheek. Dawn studied the light patterns of veins which painted Willow's face like tattoos. _She's beautiful._ She wondered if she traced the patterns with her tongue, if she would be able to taste the magic. _Would it burn?_

"Not everyone we love is gone. I'm here. You're here." She sighed. "Can that be enough?" Dawn whispered. "I need it to be enough, Willow." She shifted Willow around until the redhead was straddling Dawn's lap. The hem of the jersey rode up, exposing milky thighs with those same faint patterns of veins which pulsed with power.

Willow's green eyes—darker now, a hunter green where as they'd once been brighter, jewel green—were wide with apprehension, though she put up no physical resistance.

"Dawnie..."

"Shh..." Dawn leaned forward and place her mouth against Willow's soft petal lips. "I don't want to leave," she whispered against those lips, "But I need a reason to stay."

Her hand lowered from Willow's waist to her thigh, lowering to the hem of the jersey until her fingers slipped beneath it. She stole another kiss, and then another, and then another until Willow responded and Dawn was kissing her breathless. Her hand slid upward until it met the barrier of soft cotton panties.

Willow moaned. Dawn answered in kind at the heat meeting her cool touch through the thin impediment.

"Dawn..."

"Ask me to stay." Dawn rubbed her fingers against the dampening crotch. A light grazing touch. Willow moaned again, her head falling back. Lips parted. Her hands gripped Dawn's biceps.

"Ask me to stay." Dawn hooked a finger into the right leg of the cotton panties and ripped away the crotch. She dived forward, attacking Willow's lips, thrusting her tongue into the redheads mouth, devouring, owning, suckling on the hot silken tongue. Her mouth forsook Willow's to trail cool kisses along the heated jawline and neck.

"Ask me." Dawn parted the redhead's soft nether lips with a finger and bathed it in the redhead's moisture. Swirled the tip of her middle finger in wet heat until Willow shuddered, gasped and dug her fingers into Dawn's arms.

"Oh god."

"Ask me." Dawn nibbled at the slender column of Willow's neck, earning a soft hiss. Her thumb pressed hard against the erect nub at the apex of Willow's sex and rubbed. Willow bucked; her body trembled.

"Oh God. Dawn."

"Ask me." Dawn groaned, the sound half growl and whimper when Willow parted her thighs. Her index finger applied pressure at the dripping opening but didn't enter.

"Stay," Willow husked, silver tears tracking her cheeks. "Please stay."

Dawn drove her finger inside, and was made hungry and delighted at the sound of Willow's cry of pleasure from the force of penetration. Silk heat enveloped Dawn's finger, clutched at it, baptized it in liquid fire. She slid out, poised at the entrance and thrust forward with middle and index finger, gasping at the tight fit, the way the walls quivered and pulsed with burning magic and throbbed with long denied want.

"For you." Dawn whispered.

The ridges of her forehead caressing the side of Willow's face. Her fangs sank into soft flesh. She drank blood that scorched like hot coffee and was sweet with power and life. She thrust evenly, deep and hard, meeting the grind of Willow's hips.

"Dawn, please."

Dawn moaned against the flesh in her mouth when Willow's fingers threaded through her hair, pressed against her head, cradling Dawn to her. Willow arched, holding on to Dawn desperately. Her hips bucked a last time. Her cry of release, the choked sob of Dawn's name.

"Dawnie. Dawnie," Willow whimpered after her climax eased, and her breath returned.

Dawn withdrew her fangs, allowing her face to shift back into human guise. She slid her fingers free and held the redhead against her, damp crotch rubbing Dawn's belly, exposed by the gaping part of the robe.

"For you." Dawn pressed a kiss to the sweat damp forehead. "Anything for you."

_Finis_


End file.
